Homeless and Humble

Across the public thoroughfare, sits an emaciated man. Shaking shamefully his rusty can. Hunger pounding furiously through his stomach and eyes. Louder even, than the passing cars and flocks of drunkards exiting near by pubs. Strolling through the traffic to give what contribution I may. My fingernails scrape the depths of these pockets, intending to give the stranger all I have. Nearing the curb I hear a sonorous ringing. An ominous alarm or sound of warning. Instantly I feel a crushing sensation in all of my bones. As if I were but a sketch on paper, crumbled up and to the trash I'm thrown. With eyes closed and my body broken and bruised. I lay in street. Bleeding out with my life before me after being struck blindly by a careless taxi. I can't help but wonder why the first person to come to my aid was a man in rags. He leans in and for some reason his stench is comforting. Sweet like a dumpster sludge. He leans in closer and whispers softly to me. " in this world of keepsakes and cheapskates, a man can have millions, only donate thousands, and be seen as a saint. Though the man who gives the last five dollars in his wallet, will never have a name".